I should mention, here, that my sisters both knew how to do hair and fussy, 'pretty' stuff.

I had been raised in the barn.

With the horses.

And, for some reason, missed out on that talent.

Or interest.

I didn't realize my lack until the doctor laid my new daughter in my arms.

Holy Smoke!

My exact words.

It was then I realized that being born in the center of the family, with the boys, and spending all of my waking hours and no few of my sleeping ones in the barn, had ill-equipped me to deal with a girl.

I muddled through.

Fortunately, she mixed in with the boys as easily as her mother had.

And was gleaming bald till she was two.

That gave me time to work through some of my other inadequacies before I had to tackle the whole 'hair' problem.

But, finally, inevitably, the hair grew to a length that required either styling.

?????

Or cutting.

I opted for what I knew and fetched my scissors.

All was well.

Or so I thought.

One evening at an activity, several young boys ran up to her father and I and informed us, loudly, that our son had just gone into the girl's bathroom.

I stared at them.

We didn't have any of our sons with us.

And our daughter was . . .

Ah!

I learned to do hair.

And also to dress my daughter as a girl.

But that is another story.

There is a codicil:

That same daughter, when asked by her daughter for a haircut, did exactly the same thing.

I got a similar cut when I was five. I'd tried to cut my own hair and made a mess of it, so mum took me to the barber. Years later I cut my girl's hair. At two and a half, she still had "baby" hair, very fine and constantly snarled into a bird's nest at the back of her head. I trimmed until she had a half inch of hair left all over her head and it grew back so much better. I'm reminded of the Chinese people who shave their babies heads, even the girls and their hair grows back so thick and strong. My youngest began shaving his head at age thirteen, now his hair is so thick, like a bear skin rug.

I like that Chinese habit! My youngest began shaving his head as a teenager. He might have thick beautiful hair--he did then--but I'll never know. If it gets an eighth of an inch long, off it goes. Sigh.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .